


When you are old...

by YkiGrace



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angry Aziraphale (Good Omens), Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Based On Poetry, House Plants, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Poetry, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), watering plants with your tears
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23163667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YkiGrace/pseuds/YkiGrace
Summary: Aziraphale returns to earth, and finds his bookshop burnt to the ground.One book, containing a single poem, survived the blaze.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	1. old and grey

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of the poem  
> "when you are old" by william butler yeats.  
> Me and my friend read it in English, and this idea was spawned.  
> She is drawing a comic to go along with this on her Instagram @raiseinthewaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comic for this chapter isn't out yet, but will be linked here when May (@raiseinthewaves on Instagram) has written it.  
> :-)

> _When you are old and grey and full of sleep,_
> 
> _And nodding by the fire, take down this book,_

Aziraphale stared up at what was once his bookshop. It seemed that even the antichrist couldn't stop the inevitable. 

He shot a quick glance around, to see if he could spot an iconic Bentley anywhere, but had no luck. Sighing, he pushed his way in, to see if there was anything salvageable from the remains. 

The angel walked past shelves, brushing ash off the remaining wood, tears coming to his eyes as he realised just how much was gone. Only as he finally got to what was his desk, did Aziraphale see one book, seemingly untouched by the flames. Dust and cinders danced in the orange light streaming in through the windows, landing peacefully on the rather small book, simply bound in black leather, and without any title or design.

Aziraphale ran his hand over it, not recognising it. He picked it up, opening it at a page in the centre, surprised to find it completely blank.

The angel continued to flick through the pages, trying to find something, anything, on one of them. His search was fruitless until he got to the thirteenth page. 

There, in unmistakable spidery writing, that looped around in ways that seemed impossible, was a short poem. 

Aziraphale blinked. 

The poem was clearly in Crowley's writing--there was no way that Aziraphale wouldn't recognise that penmanship, that curling, looping penmanship, that looked like a spider had died in the shape of letters, whilst also looking decidedly beautiful.

The angel turned his eyes towards the words of the poem.

" _When you are old and grey and full of sleep,_

_And nodding by the fire, take down this book,_

_And slowly read, and dream of the soft look_

_Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;_

_How many loved your moments of glad grace,_

_And loved your beauty with love false or true,_

_But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,_

_And loved the sorrows of your changing face;_

_And bending down beside the glowing bars,_

_Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled_

_And paced upon the mountains overhead_

_And hid his face amid a crowd of stars_." he read aloud, slowly.

A look of confusion passed over his face, as he stared down at the words, written down with both purpose and hesitation, staining the page of the book. 


	2. dream of the soft look, Your eyes had once

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter ;)  
> It'll be a while until May (@raiseinthewaves) posts the comic, so we decided that I'd post the next chapter.  
> ;;))

> _And slowly read, and dream of the soft look_
> 
> _Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;_

Aziraphale was sitting in the hotel room that he was staying in when he realised.

"A crowd of stars".

Alpha Centauri. 

Crowley had gone to Alpha Centauri without him.

He fell backwards onto the bed, shaking. Whether with anger or something else, he couldn't tell. He let out a frustrated noise, and pulled one of the pillows over his face. 

Crowley had gone and left him. 

Hot, angry tears slipped from his eyes, soaking into the fabric of the pillow, and along the sides of his face. 

The angel sat up, slowly, and grasped around in his pocket for a handkerchief, wiping away the tears. 

He scrunched the fabric up into a ball, and shoved it back into his pocket. 

Aziraphale walked over to the desk on the other side of the hotel room, and picked up the book. 

It was very well worn, and the pages were yellowed, which was strange, considering that the book was empty, and that the only thing that was written in it was dated for the day after Aziraphale had been sent back to heaven by Shadwell. The angel huffed, opening the book to said thing, the poem.

He read over it again, trying to find what it might mean, hoping, just hoping that he was wrong, and that Crowley hadn't gone away without him... 

That the demon- his demon- was still somewhere waiting for him. 


End file.
